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But they’d also torn through me and everything I thought was important in my life.
“Yeah,” she mumbled, chagrined smile fading, her voice growing soft. “I’ve got work to do.” A beat, the walls coming up. “And you have practice.”
Don’t plunge my hand into that silken hair.
Don’t pull her close and see if she kissed just as good without the tequila.
Don’t strip her naked and spread her legs and—
I stepped back.
She didn’t miss that, the deliberate distance I put between us. I saw that in her eyes too.
“Practice,” she whispered.
My throat was suddenly tight, so I nodded, rasped out, “Practice.”
And…for the first time ever, I didn’t want to go play hockey.
But I went anyway.
A sharp smack to my shin guards had me blinking, focusing on my teammate.
“What’s up with you?” Ryan asked.
I scooped up a puck and volleyed it across the ice right on cue, not wanting the drill to break down even though I was zoning out, even though I’d done this particular exercise with half of these guys at least a hundred times.
It wasn’t bad, but itwasbasic. A good way to knock the cobwebs off and for Coach to see where we were coming in from the off season.
But all that basicness meant there was plenty of room for my mind to wander.
To blond curls and a pussy that tasted like honey.
My dick twitched.
Which didn’t feel great, considering I was currently wearing a cup.
Not good.
Verynotgood.
“Nothing’s up with me,” I told Ryan.
Whose expression told me he didn’t buy that. Not for a fucking second.
That was the problem with Ryan.
He was smart, too damned smart—and not just in a book way. Though he was that, too. Which was really fucking annoying. We shot pucks and hit things. We shouldn’t be pretty boys with a “pristine jawline” and an IQ that put him close to Mensa levels.
The first was a verbatim quote direct from a puck bunny’s mouth. I wasn’t sure if she didn’t know whatpristinemeant, or if I was just too much of a dumb jock to understand what apristine jawlinemeant (I didn’t have an IQ that brought me anywhere close to Mensa levels). The second was straight from the hockey player’s mouth himself.
Ryan had gone to a certain Ivy League school that had produced presidents and CEOs. He was the one player on the Rush with a four-year degree.
The fancy degree wasn’t why he was a class act, though.
Itwaswhy he was still on the team, older than a typical rookie (though I suspected he wouldn’t be in the minors for long). A late start, but his college hockey years had helped develop his game (why I suspected he wouldn’t be on the Rush for much longer).
He was a class act because he didn’t fuck around—not with the team, not with women and booze and getting into trouble.
